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Saturday, March 7, 2015

Served Hot by Annabeth Albert

In Portland,
Oregon, the only thing hotter than the coffee shops, restaurants, and bakeries
are the hard-working men who serve it up—hot, fresh, and ready to go—with no
reservations…

Robby is a self-employed
barista with a busy coffee cart, a warm smile, and a major crush on one of his
customers. David is a handsome finance director who works nearby, eats lunch by
himself, and expects nothing but “the usual”—small vanilla latte—from the cute
guy in the cart. But when David shows up for his first Portland Pride festival,
Robby works up the nerve to take their slow-brewing relationship to the next
level. David, however, is newly out and single, still grieving the loss of his
longtime lover, and unsure if he’s ready to date again. Yet with every fresh
latte, sweet exchange—and near hook-up—David and Robby go from simmering to
steaming to piping hot. The question is: Will someone get burned?

A little idea niggled at my brain—like
an evil elf had tapped me on the shoulder. “You know, if you give me your card,
I could call you if you leave your wallet behind again.”

There. His cheeks went dusky pink. I
finally got a blush out of him, but hell if I could decipher what it meant. I
could predict people’s taste in coffee, down to preferred syrup flavor, but I
still sucked at decoding anything as complex as human emotions.

“Ah. Um.” He did the nervous cough thing
again.

“Never mind.” I wiped my hands on my
apron. “I’d better get back.”

“Wait.” He opened the wallet, plucked
out a white card with a blue logo, and offered it to me. His broad fingers
brushed mine again as he handed it over. Another barely there touch, but I felt
the charge all the way down my spine, like I’d chugged a triple shot.

My breath tripped with wishing he’d add
a “call me anytime.” Brian would have. But David just stood there silently.
Straighter than the Fremont Bridge and denser than a concrete pylon.

Long Excerpt (600 words):

My nooner was late. Well, technically,
David was my 11:50. Without fail, ten minutes before twelve every work day,
David P. Gregory bought a vanilla latte from my coffee cart in the Old Emerson
building in Portland. I only knew his name because he used his debit card to
pay, and I knew the time because of the old-fashioned, massive brass clock
directly across the atrium from my cart.

I knew David banked at a local credit
union, knew that he worked somewhere that required a tie, knew that he had a
smile that made his mouth crinkle up at the edges when I handed him his coffee,
and knew that he was an excellent tipper.

What I didn’t know was whether or not he
was straight. We’d had this weird dance for months now—he’d arrive for his
coffee, stilted and uncomfortable, relax into a bit of small talk while I made
his drink, and then he’d take his coffee to one of the metal tables out in the
atrium to have with the lunch he packed in a blue bag. I liked watching him eat
because he gave it his entire focus—no smart phone or gadget, no newspaper or
book, no folder of work. A few times I’d caught him looking back in my
direction. But his gaze never lingered and either my flirting while I served
him was more subtle than I’d thought or he was simply immune.

Today David was late. Unexpected
disappointment uncurled in my stomach, souring my caffeine buzz. It was a good
day—a steady stream of customers at my cart and bustling business for the pizza
place and the vegan sandwich bar on the other side of the atrium. The
hundred-year-old office building had been renovated to include a few small
eateries in the newly added skylit atrium. Plenty for me to look at, but my
eyes kept returning to the double brass doors that opened onto Ninth.

David pushed through the heavy doors at
12:45 just as I was finishing up a caramel soy latte for one of the Goth girls
who worked at the jewelry place across the street. I hid my smile behind my
espresso machine. Eager for it to be his turn, I tapped my toes against the
linoleum.

“The usual?” I figured it would freak
him out if I mentioned I’d noticed his lateness.

“Hmmm.” He studied my specials sign. I’d
glued a chalkboard panel inside a silver frame from a secondhand place on
Hawthorne and put the whole thing on a silver-painted easel. Classy on the
cheap.

Today I had a half-price tuxedo
mocha—white chocolate with dark chocolate swirls. David had never paid any
attention to the sign before, but today he gave it a long stare, consideration
tugging his mouth back and forth. God, I loved his mouth—full pink lips, a hint
of stubble on his upper lip like he’d missed a spot shaving.

After a few seconds, he shrugged, broad
shoulders rippling the fine cotton of his dress shirt. “Yeah. The usual.”

“Sure thing.” I grabbed the cup for his
small vanilla latte.

“Wait.” He held up a hand as I started
to ring him up. “Iced. It’s sweltering out.” He’d rolled up the sleeves of his
crisp white shirt, revealing muscular forearms and a heavy silver,
antique-looking watch.

“Meaning it’s eighty-five degrees in
Portland and everyone is freaking out. You know . . . it’s good to try
something different once in a while.”

********

Can David change his regular order to
include a side of sexy? You’ll find out in Served Hot!

Meet the Author

Annabeth
Albert grew up sneaking romance novels under the bed covers. Now, she
devours all subgenres of romance out in the open—no flashlights required! When
she’s not adding to her keeper shelf, she’s a multi-published Pacific Northwest
romance writer. Emotionally complex, sexy, and funny stories are her favorites
both to read and to write. Annabeth loves finding happy endings for a variety
of pairings and is a passionate gay rights supporter. In between
searching out dark heroes to redeem, she works a rewarding day job and wrangles
two toddlers.

2 comments:

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